


In The Stacks

by RussianWitch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Drug-Induced Sex, Harold won't say no, John doesn't want to, M/M, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold's quiet afternoon is interrupted in the best and worst possible way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Stacks

**Author's Note:**

> not betad

On rare occasions, there is time enough to indulge in the little things in life. Harold leaves the Machine and all other concerns that make up his life behind briefly to play with his precious first editions hidden meticulously among the pedestrian offerings moldering away on the shelves. Occasionally he mourns all the book that were left behind when the library closed down, even if they still serve a purpose. In dower moods, he walks the abandoned shelves and galleries simply basking in the presence of knowledge all the while mourning it. At first, Reese had a tendency to follow him, but once he'd realized there were only books to be seen he'd soon stopped. Reese has never shown much of an interest in the content of the shelves that make up their home outside of their potential as camouflage for his ever growing arsenal.

These days, Harold doesn't expect to be followed so Reese's appearance from the shadows between the stacks just as Harold is putting away 'The romance of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table', startles him enough he barely keeps from jumping. The painful flinch at the unexpected intrusion he can't help, along with a step backward that makes him crash into the shelves that bar any further retreat. He bites back a pained moan and straightens up ready to leave the aisle the long way around to avoid confrontation, but Reese smirks—and Harold decides to stand his ground. They've been playing some strange game of chicken since the very beginning, chipping away at each other's fortifications in a game of one-upmanship. Whatever boundary Reese wants to push this time, Harold is more than capable of pushing back.

He sets his jaw and waits for whatever Reese has in mind.

It only takes half a step for the tall man to loom over him, strong arms boxing Harold in against the stacks, pinning him in place. In the light, Reese's eyes are wild as he frowns down at him. "Mr. Reese?" He questions softly, wondering if he shouldn't be concerned.

Despite knowing full well what and who Reese is, Harold can't imagine the man doing _him_ any damage. Extremely foolish on his part, but Harold's mind flashes back to high school to the football heroes of his school who rules the rest of the lesser mortals with an iron fist. He hadn't been afraid then either getting slammed into the lockers, hot breath in his face and hard bodies against his softer one. Harold can barely remember the angry, taunting words, most of them were in it for the rush of power wielded with abandon—but there had been one or two with an odd glint in their eyes that spoke of wanting something they shouldn't want, the violence and taunts the only outlet they could permit themselves. He's spent a lot of his time in school bruised and bleeding—now, he should be wondering if the result will be any different.

"Are you well?" He keeps his voice soft, keeping his breaths slow and steady. Reese, unnervingly close, is too big a temptation to do anything else. Harold can't imagine the cause for Reese's behavior, not without access to the Machine or at least a few answers from the man in question. "John?" He tries again as the taller man leans in, close enough that Harold can no longer look Reese in the face.

"Tell me 'no', Finch." Reese rasps, breath hot against the shell of Harold's ear. "Tell me 'no', because I want—I need—" He orders as Harold tries not to get distracted by the proximity of the powerful body and the man's scent waving from the roguishly unbuttoned shirt collar. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then forces himself to breathe out slowly ignoring the way Reese sways closer and groans. Forgetting himself, Harold leans in; his nose brushing John's unshaven cheek before he remembers his manners and tries to pull back as far as his position will allow with Reese surrounding him.

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning, Mr. Reese, but—" Reese's silent laughter against Harold's throat is a series of huffs, and Reese's shoulders shaking in amusement. "Liar." He accuses in a harsh whisper, lips moving against the top of Harold's ear. Reese is nothing if not observant, and the accusation isn't unfounded.

He supposes that some kind of confrontation was bound to happen sooner or later. Some kind of power play on Reese's part to take back some of the control Harold has taken over his life from the moment he'd kidnapped Reese from the steps of the police station. "Last chance— _Harold_." Reese growls, and for one devastating moment wants to say 'no', push the man away and put as much distance between them as possible.

Reese, he knows with certainty, wouldn't object: he'd back away, disappear somewhere without any explanation until whatever strange mood has gripped him goes away. They would never bring this incident up again and life would go on as it always has. This can be nothing more but a power play, Harold reminds himself. There cannot be any other reason for Reese to behave—Reese's hands find his wrists, dragging them up above Harold's head to be pinned there against the dusty wood one-handed. With Harold pinned down, Reese concerns himself with Harold's tie pawing at the heavy silk until the knot comes loose and Reese can bend down to nose his way into Harold's collar, and mouth wetly at the crook of his neck and scrape his teeth across both skin and afternoon stubble.

It's a good thing that Reese has him pinned down because Harold's knees go weak at the sensations assaulting his body. Harold knows his wrists are going to be bruised, the anticipation of having the imprint of Reese's hands on his skin curls pleasantly low in his gut. The familiar sound of heavy silk dragging against cotton returns Harold to his current predicament and the lovely sight of Reese's feral grin as he drags the tie from around Harold's neck, to wrap it around his wrists tucking the ends between Harold's wrists instead of knotting the fabric.

With Harold's hands secured, Reese gives him another smile and turns his attention to unbuttoning Harold's vest and shirt, growling in annoyance when instead of bare skin an undershirt is exposed. Reese glares and Harold has to bite his lip to refrain from point out that everything he wears is, in fact, necessary. "You really should consider a Kevlar vest if you want to wear body armor, Harold." The soldier tells him with amusement, as a knife appears in his hand. The switchblade is an evil looking things Reese has most likely taken off one of the goons he's had to discourage. Before Harold can voice a protest, it has already ripped his undershirt to shred baring his chest and abdomen to Reese's eyes and hands.

The hungry gaze burns on Harold's skin, makes him blush, painfully aware what a sight he must make: damaged and middle-aged, far too used to little exercise and a lot of rich food, too—He must be hallucinating, Harold decides, as Reese can't have dropped to his knees to bury his face in Harold's abdomen, lethal hands groping their way along Harold's ribs and up his back. Mouth open, Reese breathes hot and wet against Harold's skin, rubs against him like a cat marking territory, nipping playfully at the trail of fur disappearing in Harold's trousers and following it up to play with the protruding navel.

He's never expected to be quite this sensitive there, but Reese's licking and sucking feeds the arousal churning low in his belly into taking over the rest of his body. Even if this is some twisted game of chicken, Harold can still enjoy it, enjoy himself—with Reese on his knees, he can drop his bound hands to pet the soldier's hair, and get some kind of decent grip in case his knees give out completely under Reese's ministrations.

Looking down at the sweat on Reese's brow and the wild look in the soldier's eyes when he looks up, the analyst part of Harold can't help wonder if he hasn't come to the wrong conclusion? Even with the rest of him going weak and hazy from the unexpected cornucopia of sensation he's denied himself for years, that one small part remains the objective observer: Reese's pupils are blown wide enough that the soldier's eyes look black, the strange demand to be denied without any explanation and need for skin to skin contact, none of it makes sense—Reese sits back on his heels, leaving Harold fighting for balance and getting a glimpse of Reese's lap, where the soldier's own enjoyment is blatantly displayed. Grinning smugly, Reese sits up, grabbing Harold's firmly by the hips and turning him to face the shelves, to lean against the dusty books.

Reese's hands find Harold's belt, and make short work of the trouser buttons even without the assistance of his sight. The trousers and underwear end up pooled around Harold's ankles effectively hobbling him before Reese decides to stand again dragging his clothed body across every inch of skin he's just bared, blunt nails digging into, as he kneads Harold's ass. He should keep silent and indulge now that his whole body is awake with almost forgotten sensations, Reese—would forgive him as long as Harold provides him with a purpose in life. Harold keens reedily as Reese's lips and teeth explore the edge of the scars on the back of his neck, making him wish that he could turn his head and catch a glimpse—

"Did anything particular happen this afternoon—?" Demands and orders come easily to him these days, normally that is, now Harold has to make an effort to sound as casually in control as always. No matter what fantasy he might indulge, how many excuses he has lined up—if he's wrong and Reese isn't in his right mind—

"Nothing _particular_ , no. Just a friend of Carter's who needed assistance with pest control in their neighborhood." Reese answers distractedly, more interested in sucking on Harold's shoulder than talking.

Every bite and suck feel like a brand on Harold's skin.

Every touch presses just hard enough to leave a bruise.

Reese might as well tattoo his name on Harold's ass, the way he's going.

"Wouldn't know which one." The soldier tells him with mournful humor, scraping his stubble across Harold's cheek. Harold blushes cursing the unfortunate habit of having his brain to mouth filter disappearing under certain circumstances. Both Nathan and Grace had taken horrible advantage, he hadn't expected to be faced with the problem again. "I could be bargained down to a ring." He continues, biting more bruises onto Harold's skin. That, shouldn't send a fresh jolt of arousal through Harold's system, has him arching as best he can into the soldier's touch.

John's hips snap forward, the wool of Reese's pants abrasing Harold's skin and firing his imagination. Does John want to fuck him, Harold wonders?

Does he want it? Trust is a difficult thing, almost impossible these days—but he has trusted Reese with his biggest secret already, trusting Reese with his body seems far simpler. Harold pants against the dusty books and tries to go back to analyzing the situation instead of just experiencing it.

Reese's type of assistance is never quiet or gentle...

"Mr. Reese, did anything happen while you were providing assistance?" He demands, gathering all the authority he can manage to scrape together, his thoughts scattering all over again when Reese presses closer instead of answering. When he pulls away, Harold almost growls in annoyance, but only a second later Reese is back warm, and bare. As lovely as the somewhat scratchy sensation of quality wool is against Harold's skin, it feels infinitely better with no barriers between them. Reese's dick sliding damp and scourging against Harold's ass until it finally settles into the groove of between his cheeks.

Terror flares at the prospect of dry penetration, common sense surfacing briefly, but Reese seems content to thrust in the available furrow until it's slick with sweat and pre-come purring happily to himself. Obviously, the former soldier is drugged, Harold can't think of any other reason for John to act so out of character. "I'm going to fuck you, _Harold._ " Reese whispers hoarsely against the back of Harold's neck, "I'm going to fuck you until you scream for me."

The words should send more terror down Harold's spine, _not_ excitement, but Reese's hands on his body are warm and solid touching him like he's made of glass. He wonders if that will change once Reese manages to get inside of him. The stoned man nips at the back of Harold's neck until his skin tingles, then drops to his knees without warning. John's breath is hot on Harold's skin: Reese's tongue hot and wet, slick and agile snaking up and down the crevice between Harold's cheeks lapping up the mess he made and probing teasingly at his asshole. "Oh dear—!" Harold moans, the sensation foreign and _dirty_ too ever have been contemplated before, but the way Reese goes about it seems natural. "John will do," Reese suggest drolly, dragging his tongue along the length of the furrow in one long, filthy lick. Harold digs his nails into the wood of the shelf and hangs on for dear life, not sure if his legs will able to support him if Reese continues for much longer.

Harold has rarely wanted to be whole again as desperately was he wants it now: to be able to lift his leg, open himself for Reese—as is, cooperation has to do. Ignoring the dust, he gives himself over to John's ministrations: the simple pleasure of touch and complicated pleasure of John Reese. A twist of the tongue _inside_ of him has Harold keening and John purring in glee nipping gently at Harold's right ass cheek.

Catching his breath, Harold realizes that he's going to be marked for days: John's stubble scoring his skin and leaving it over sensitized. He's never been much one for—marks, but these—, biting back a sob of regret, these Harold is going to treasure as long as they will last in the days to come. "John!" He pleads, the name strange on his tongue after spending so long trying to keep his distance. "John, please!" He begs, gripped by reckless urgency.

"Please what, Harold?" Fingers join John's tongue in teasing Harold's ass hole, pushing in slow and careful, but Harold isn't under any illusion that John will stop before he gets his way. "Please stop? Or please more?" The soldier demands, making a place for himself inside of Harold's body.

"More! Now, please!" Harold snaps, pushing back onto the invading digits and ignoring the sting.

"Careful, Harold!" John urges, but speeds up his ministrations anyway. Harold's breath catches when John stands, anticipation and fear churning in his belly—cold, slick _gunk_ pushing inside of him leaving Harold whimpering in distress. "Sorry," John husks, entering while Harold is still struggling to breathe. "Fuck, but you feel good!" Harold can't help but agree; pierced and owned, he takes a chance reaching back to clutch at John's hip and feel muscles strain as John starts fucking him. It's awkward and their difference in height works against them, but Harold can barely imagine feeling anything better. If this is all he gets of John—Harold digs his nails into John's thigh needing to leave at least a few marks of his own.

John doesn't last, the drugs in his system having demolished his control. He's heavy on Harold's back, shaking as he catches his breath, but Harold doesn't mind: he'd bare the weight gladly any time even with the shelves digging into his chest and belly. John slumps to the floor, and Harold wonders if the drugs have worn off. "Turn around!" John orders from next to his hip, eyes still fever-glazed. Harold gulps and tries, but can't move as fast as John seems to want. He's picked up and turned around, John leaning against him heavily to nose at his groin, licking and sucking on his shaft until he can wrap his lips around the head of Harold's dick.

He's swallowed down, John's eyes burning up at him in the dim bright enough that Harold can almost fool himself into thinking that John's mind is clear. That this will end anything else but badly. He reaches with a trembling hand to pet John's hair and John's eyes fall shut as he arches into the touch. Harold has never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He comes with a cry and tears in his eyes filling John's mouth to overflowing, unable to lean down to wipe away the drops that dribble down John's chin.

Somewhere beyond the stacks, a phone is ringing demandingly, and Harold has to wonder how long he's been deaf to it already. John licks his chops, looking content with the world and Harold can't stop crying.

**Author's Note:**

> not sorry


End file.
